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Lunch for two, including wine and service, £120. Dinner: an awful lot more.
Ferran Adria, the modernist chef of the legendary El Bulli in the hills far north of Barcelona, once said that a great meal should begin with a long journey; that the struggle to reach the restaurant could only improve the experience. That may be true of El Bulli, but few journeys reward the effort. One place that has always suggested itself as worthy of a pilgrimage, though, is Winteringham Fields, overlooking the Humber in North Lincolnshire. It is a long way from anywhere, other than Scunthorpe.
A while ago, when I became concerned about my waistline, I considered giving up this job. I decided the last place I would review would be Winteringham Fields, a small, independent business which, in its 15 years, has won almost every award including two Michelin stars. The Swiss chef, Germain Schwab, is regarded as one of the great unsung heroes of British haute cuisine.
Anyway, I came to my senses and bought an exercise machine. Now it seems I will outlast Winteringham Fields. Recently, Germain and his wife Annie, who does front of house, announced that the place is up for sale. They have taken it as far as they can. Subsequently I received an email from a reader, Ade, who was bereft. Winteringham Fields has been something of a hobby of his, a place into which he would happily pour a fair chunk of his income. Clearly Ade needed cheering up. I wanted to try it before it went. We booked.
Winteringham Fields is one of those establishments with a unique sense of place. The old stone of the buildings seems to be on more than nodding terms with the ancient geology from which it was hewn. Inside it is a tight warren of snug, thickly upholstered rooms, roaring fires and lovely individual touches: a decorated ostrich egg on every table, a huge Swiss cow bell over the range in the dining room. The staff, from the chap who comes out to greet you to the one who returns your coat, are sweet professionalism personified.
The food did not let the side down, particularly my starter (taken from the three-course lunch menu at £31), which was among the best things I have ever eaten: two lightly caramelised fillets of lemon sole with wilted spinach, a heart-stopping hollandaise and strips of translucent tagliatelle made from a gelÀe of wild mushrooms that melted on the tongue. My saddle of lamb with a liver and kidney stuffing was a grand chunk of meat. My pudding of a tiny chocolate cake, white chocolate ice cream and coffee mousse was blissful. Ade's cheeses were as ideally kept as any. Even the petit fours were minor miracles, especially a mini caramelised tarte au citron.
And yet. It wasn't perfect. Let's put aside the pricing of the wine which, with an entry level of £18, seems opportunistic. Ade's starter was a laksa with mussels and prawns. A laksa - usually a big, chillified coconut broth with noodles and seafood - should be a rumbustious dish. A pared-down haute cuisine version misses the point; it's like doing nouvelle sausage and mash. Sadly, glumly, Ade's main course - guinea fowl with a crust of figs, coriander, cumin seeds and honey - was overwhelming. The accompanying rice and vegetable pilaf was dull and unimaginative.
What troubles me is that these were errors not of execution but of conception. At £120 for two (nearer £200 in the evening) there should be no errors of any kind. And it was this that niggled me throughout my three-hour journey home. The sad fact is that pilgrimages demand perfection, and very few places are capable of delivering, even the great Winteringham Fields.
